


Details

by kyanos



Series: Serenades [1]
Category: Finder no Hyouteki | Finder Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-11
Updated: 2015-09-11
Packaged: 2018-04-20 06:27:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4776998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyanos/pseuds/kyanos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Akihito curses his skills as a photographer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Details

He’s a photographer, he can’t help but notice the details. Even when he doesn’t want to. Especially when he doesn’t want to.

The strong hands. Casually curled around a crystal cut glass, the delicate stem of a goblet, his wrist. The implacable grip on a handgun, his neck, the railing of the ocean liner. Fluid with a pen, cutting in his gestures, and supremely comforting on the marked skin of his back late into the night.

He develops all the pictures he has of the man. All of them are clandestine shots. The shallow slope of sturdy shoulders under dark fabric, a beheaded half silhouette in murky street light that dominates the entire photograph despite being only a sixth of it, a gleaming head of glossy, barely slicked back hair behind a haze of gauzy cigarette smoke.

The lush lips. Full, unyielding, and warm against his own. Rarely curved up, often turned down at the edges. Infinitely expressive when the man chooses to be so. A mocking curve. A sly upturn. Relaxed in his sleep. Devastating when involuntarily eased into a true smile.

The rarely glimpsed spread of his back. The slow transformation of the subject because of the observer’s relationship to it. Rarely glimpsed in the early days, brief, abruptly cut flashes floating on the edges of his vision after taxing nights. Then, slowly the incomplete image broadens to include the impressive width of it, pieced together over the length of their meetings. So seemingly reliable he thinks it could take the weight of his entire world, tangled problems and all but for now he thinks he’s content to let him take the weight of his body only.

Because he’s human, it is a tendency that his other senses have faithfully soaked up as well.

The uninflected, husky timbre of his voice when he rises from sleep. The deadly quality of it when it is focused to be a certain depth, infused with fire that leaves him torn asunder and burning, burning for the balm only the one turning him into an inferno of need can provide. It is worse, much worse when it is warmly indulgent making him feel light until he is all bluster which the other man takes in with fond amusement. Or the one that he doesn't think about, refuses to, absolutely refuses to: the soft, reverent one that has him quaking at the edge of a revelation in front of which Asami’s promised abyss seems like a shallow indent.

The thought of it has him shaking in the weak afternoon light filtering into the living room of the condo. His mind almost gets caught in the sticky mire of the ever lasting impressions the man has left on his tongue, his nose, his skin - the more tactile ones and he skitters away from them as they almost overwhelm him a moment.

Not that what his thoughts find purchase on beneath the physical details of what they are is any less compelling. There is an all consuming desire in him to possess the other man as completely as the other claims to want to do to him. He wants to capture his soul. Find it and keep it for his own, jealously guarded against all and any interlopers. It’s a manic tune his heart is dancing to that keeps on getting frenzied and raucous, ever on the rise, slowly blowing away all doubts and fears, leaving only a longing and a bone deep craving to know this man as intimately as possible in its wake.

He wants to take him to the mountains. Those crusted thickly with snow and those which are just bare rock and the bones of the earth. Meadows thick with wildflowers and fragrant air. He wants to see him out of the world of bullets and steel and concrete and in that of trees and fresh air and softness.

He wants to see him out of his habitat. Possibly out of his depth.

That would be gratifying.

He wants him to be on the horizons of all his photographs. A slim pin in front of the rising, swollen orange sun. The connection between cloud muddled sky and chaos ridden sea. The tip of the peak of hills and monuments.

His phone buzzes and a job he doesn't particularly care for is offered. He still rushes out the door, looking for an escape which he realises now is temporary at best.


End file.
